


Pulses.

by palesnakedragon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Au where Wilbur doesn’t die, Gen, but doesn’t leave the server, he leaves lmanberg and travels away from the smp, he regrets it bro, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palesnakedragon/pseuds/palesnakedragon
Summary: They forgot to check for a pulse.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Regret & Tiredness
Kudos: 19





	Pulses.

As everybody cleaned up after Doomsday, they’d left Wilbur where he lay. Some had casted pitiful glances towards the body, the man looked so peaceful, with his face not contorted in rage nor misery. Tubbo had slipped a cornflower into the man’s hands, but other than that nobody interacted with it. 

But there was one this they forgot to do. 

Nobody checked for a pulse. No one knew that although his blood stained the floor below, that Wilbur Soot’s heart still beat in his chest. So when everybody had gone away from L’manberg for a bit to let the crater cool off, nobody saw the former leader of L’manberg stir. 

Wilbur woke to chilly rain pattering against his face, a throbbing pain in hi stomach, and a clear head. The most unexpected part was the clear head, recently he hadn’t been able to think clearly, if at all. His mind had been closed with hate and sadness, so he took advantage of this. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it, as he noticed his throbbing headache. But he forced his eyes open to an overcast sky, and looked down at his stomach, where the most of his pain was emanating from. 

He choked back a sob, seeing the ugly, burned wound. Dried blood crusted around it, and he turned his head to the side, seeing blood being washed away from stone by the rain. He grimaced, remembering asking, no, begging his father to kill him. He hadn’t been thinking, everything had been a blur of sadness and misery. He forced himself to his feet, and would’ve vomited from the pain if he had anything in his stomach. Instead he coughed wetly, tears pouring freely down his face from the pain. 

Usually Wilbur had an amazing tolerance for pain that impressed some and concerned others, but the combined pain from the wound and his migraine was too much to bear. He dragged himself from the crater and had sobbed, realizing the actions of his mania. He ran his hand across a tattered, burned flag and forced himself away from the wreckage. 

Where could he go now? There was only one place, and thinking about it made him dizzy. He started off in the direction of his hiding place, a name that left a bitter taste in his mouth. The entrance to Pogtopia glared at him, and he uncovered the secret entrance, and stumbled down into the ravine, and into his old room. 

It had no bed, he had never slept anyways. It was little more than a square room with a chair in one corner, and an armoire in the other. He dug around in the armoire one handed, with the other hand covering his wound. He pulled out some hydrogen peroxide, and a roll of old bandages. 

He took off his shirt and coat, and winced at the wound. He was surprised that it wasn’t infected, the skin around it was absolutely covered in dirt and ash, and everything else around it was covered in blood. 

He covered a clean scrap of his shirt in peroxide, and rubbed the area down, wincing heavily from the sting. After it looked clean enough and the rag was tinged red-brown from grime and blood, he wrapped his midsection and arms in bandages. 

He slipped on an old checkered shirt, and then collapsed backwards in his chair, careful to not stretch his wounds. He forced himself up, even though he was in a lot of pain, and trudged over to Tommy’s room, dragging the beat up mattress into his room, and fell onto it, drifting into sleep.

He woke up to thunder, and by how parched and hungry he was, he could guess that he had been asleep for a few days. He pulled himself up and felt scabs rub against the bandages uncomfortably. He stretched, and dragged himself out of his room, and into the farm. He was glad that potatoes lasted so long, as he popped a potato into a furnace. He filled up a glass of water- no scratch that- several glasses of water from the water system they had in the potato room, and drank. He sighed and rubbed his mouth, before carefully removing the potato from the furnace to let it cool, and thought while he waited.

Where would he go after this? No faction or team would want Wilbur, the man who went insane with his obsession for his country. Tears sprung into his eyes, but he rubbed them away. He touched his potato to distract himself, and tentatively took a bite. It was warm and plain, not that he minded. He couldn’t bother putting seasoning onto his food. 

He tried to think about his situation in a positive light, and smiled. Maybe he could use this to work on his own problems, to think on his actions, and grow from them. 

Yeah, he could do that. 

A few days later, he was packing his clothing, supplies, and personal items into a rucksack, and leaving for distant coordinates on the server, where he could be alone. He headed east, far away from civilization, to his own little haven. The trip took weeks, but he made good time, covering thousands of blocks on foot. 

When he found a place he liked, he started chopping down trees, making planks, and constructed his house. He found sand to make glass for the windows, and mined stone for the floor. He smiled at his work after a few days, his house looked nice. He had put a slice of mutton into the furnace for dinner, and headed in to eat. 

He realized he hadn’t thought of a name for this new place, and remembered a memory, of a time long past. 

Later that day, a sign with the name ‘Newfoundland’ was a little bit outside the clearing, next to the walls he’d constructed to keep mobs and people out. 

Wilbur smiled as he fell asleep, even though he was alone that was okay, people were happier with ought his shenanigans, and that was okay. He drifted off, feeling warm and happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Not very good at writing, this may turn into a series. Feedback is heavily appreciated.


End file.
